


you're gonna sing the words wrong

by Welcoming_Disaster



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Food Issues, Memory Loss, More Hurt Than Comfort, Multi, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Not compliant with anything post CA:TWS, Paranoia, Self-Harm, sleep-deprivation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-25
Updated: 2018-06-25
Packaged: 2019-05-28 11:33:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15048005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Welcoming_Disaster/pseuds/Welcoming_Disaster
Summary: They have to be doing this -- he isn't like this. Everything is clear and sharp in his head until the chair comes and makes him wobbly and nauseous and forgetful. Everything had been clear and sharp but then-- then-- Steve and Sam with the wings-- Natalia, in the car, gun in hand -- something going off, the asset's or theirs or-- the nausea, the way the world swam around him, Steve's voice warbling in and out like a -- like a ..They can't do this if he doesn't know why. Doesn't work that way. Can't associate negative reinforcement with malfunction. He won't learn.**In which Bucky has trouble figuring out the rules but breaks them anyways.





	you're gonna sing the words wrong

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt which asked for post-TWS memory loss & Bucky mistrusting Steve and co. Please mind the tags!

There is crust around the eyes. Buc-- the asse-- Bucky blinks a few times as he sits up, reaches a hand up to rub at them. He feels leather against the cheek, old drool caked around the lips, and it's almost enough to send him spiraling before he recognizes the soft white of the sofa. Natalia, he remembers, blessedly. Safe house. Waiting for Steve.    
  
It's dark. Why is he here. He doesn't sleep here. Doesn't sleep, period, most of the time, but when he-- when he does, there was... There was another place. He's sitting up now. Blinks down at the couch. It's clean. Nothing smudged on; he doesn’t see blood or dirt, just a glistening spot under where his head was, his own, safe, but then why. Why doesn't he know. Why is he here.    
  
How are they doing this. They have to be doing this -- he isn't like this. Everything is clear and sharp in his head until the chair comes and makes him wobbly and nauseous and forgetful. Everything had been clear and sharp but then-- then-- Steve and Sam with the wings-- Natalia, in the car, gun in hand -- something going off, the asset's or theirs or-- the nausea, the way the world swam around him, Steve's voice warbling in and out like a -- like a ...   
  
Everything had been clear, for a little while, and then he was there. They didn't have the Chair. Or they did, and he doesn't remember because of the Chair. The Chair doesn't go in places like this, with fireplaces and white leather couches and kitchens that skylights so the light comes through when the sun rises in the morning. But maybe underneath. The chair can always go underneath.   
  
Important: is there multiple Chairs. How many. There are multiple assets -- does each have a Chair? Does Natalia have a Chair. Is that why she looks to him like an asset. Did they put him on her Chair. Maybe it means she didn't have to.   
  
There is water boiling in the kitchen. In the kettle. Bucky (not the asset, thank god, even if he went in the Chair) stands. It's dark in the hallway but the light is on in the kitchen. Too early for the skylights. He hovers in the doorway, watching Natalia pour handfuls of tea leaves into a little red teapot out of a gold box. He revises his earlier thoughts; she doesn't look like an asset. She moves like one, easy, trained grace. She has the same kind of restraint to her, the kind no one comes by without having it put in. Holds a knife like one, breathes, handles a semi-automatic, all careful and controlled. Slips easily between faces and languages but--   
  
Holds on to something, in between. Is up in the middle of the night, checking her phone because someone named Clint didn't check in. Wears the impractical little chain around her neck, the one with the little arrow. Lets something genuine into her laugh sometimes, with Steve.    
  
She pours the boiling water over the tea leaves. She knows he's watching, of course. After a moment, he steps inside the kitchen, takes in the faint scents of the brew and her deodorant and sweat, even, oddly human. She's in the same clothes as, as-- yesterday? What time is it.    
  
"Morning, sunshine," She says, sounding thoroughly unimpressed with him. There is a clock, on the stove. It's 3:30.    
  
There is a way that he wants to say it, and he doesn't  _ think _ he's going to be punished for it. Maybe even the other way around. Do what you want, said Steve. "Pot." He says, voice only a little bit raspy. He points at an actual pot, too, as he does it, and then at her. "Kettle."   
  
She laughs, easy as that and bright and only about half fake. He didn't do it wrong. This isn't a test. Is this a test.    
  
"Fair enough." She sits down, on the other side of the table. Is the silence companionable. Should he say something. She follows it up a little later, "Did you sleep?"   
  
"Yes," He says, a little uncertain himself.    
  
"That's something," She says, and stands. He watches as she pours a little zavarka out of the teapot and then back in. It's a familiar smell, but not in a way that makes him sick. "Tea?"    
  
"Sure." Didn't even have to spend two minutes trying to figure out the answer. Is that bad. She isn't angry. He's still there. Tension seeps out of the shoulders, involuntarily.    
  
She pours zavarka straight into her piala, doesn't water it down. Makes a normal cup for him. There's a bowl of candy on the table. "I get them imported. There's Lesnaya Lakomka, Petushki. Couldn't get Belochki this time."    
  
He nods, gratefully. She sits. The silence is companionable.    
  
Something rustles in the room to the left. The tension pours back in all at once, cooling in the set of the shoulders and freezing them in place. He's standing before he knows he's moving.    
  
Natalia doesn't seem rustled, just blinks up at him, voice purposefully relaxed, "Shit, did we wake Steve up?"

Steve is back. When did Steve get back. Why doesn't he know Steve is back. What did he do. How--? Breathing too fast now. Can feel the heartbeat in the neck, in the blood vessels under the ears. Natalia will have to see and -- and -- administer tranqs -- the Chair -- no, he has to be mission functional, they'll have to--    
  
"Breathe in," Natalia's voice is unsympathetic, mechanical. Her hand is on the shoulder. He breathes. It makes an ugly noise, wet. "One-two-three-four. Hold it, one-two-three..." She makes him do it four times -- in for four, hold for seven, out for eight. He can feel the apex of the lungs that way, when he's breathing out. His pulse comes back down most of the way.    
  
Natalia sits back down, folds her legs under her, catlike and even smaller than usual. She doesn't say anything else. Bucky sits, too, and stares down into his near-empty tea cup. The loose tea leaves make a jumbled picture in his cup. He thinks he sees little men with twisted arms and legs forming circles and dances and pairs. It’s a far away, jumbled picture. He’s dizzy looking at it, and he swirls the cup until the leaves scatter, the little men fly apart. Turns back to Natalia. 

"When," He chokes out, and immediately regrets it. If they didn't want him to have it the first time, they'll just take it again.    
  
Alas, she gets it immediately. "Steve got back last night. Around eight." He would have been there. Why doesn't he know he was there. Where was he.    
  
"He isn't hurt?" He's asking it before he can help himself. Sounds like a question, too. A choice selection of swear words swirls in his head, another bad sign. He's always thinking these things right before they--    
  
"Nothing that won't be gone by the morning." Natalia, thankfully, interrupts his train of thoughts. She doesn't seem like she's angry. Not her job, wouldn't make sense that way.   
  
He wants to say something. He doesn't know what it is. He knows he can't ask about this. Knows he can't run. All that happened last time was that Steve got hurt, and that Steve caught up, and that Steve stared at him with big soulful eyes and told him a lot of things that sounded very true.    
  
He finishes his tea. Has another Lakomka. He likes feeling of it melting on his tongue, leaving nuts and little globs of sugar behind. This is safe. Steve likes it when he likes things.    
  
Natalia's phone buzzes. She snags it, slowing herself down just enough that it looks casual. One of her shoulders drops just a couple of degrees down, and she pushes it away without answering. Not Clint, concludes Bucky, and takes it as his cue to leave.    
  
He walks the perimeter of the safe house, quiet enough Steve shouldn't pick up on it. Searches for hidden doors and basements and safes. Finds several, mostly of the safe variety. There are weapons stashed in two, very distinctly Natalia's. One is full of photographs and lists of numbers and what looks to be craft supplies. He doesn't touch that one.    
  
The only hidden door leads to a reinforced panic room. There's bottles of water and energy bars stacked in the corners. It's not the kind of place where one would hide the Chair. There is, he is forced to conclude, no underneath.    
  
He sits down on the floor. This place is meant for hiding, and it makes him feel safe. Makes it easier to wonder how. No Chair -- there's got to be another way. He's not easy to drug, though that's possible. Doesn't know enough about what's in the body to call it his. Maybe there's something still left inside. Can he find it.    
  
There are footsteps outside. Heavy, socked feet. The door is still open. He's spent a long time searching, can see the light coming through. Has to be morning.    
  
Steve leans against the doorway, blocking the light out. It's hard not to shrink back. He knows he messed up last night. Doesn't know where. Doesn't know what the point of this is if he doesn't know where. "You're in here again?" He asks. What do you mean again Steve. "Christ, you sleep at all last night?"    
  
Always give the same answers. Do not change the narrative, not in interrogation, not to the handlers. He answered that one already. "Yes."    
  
Steve's face softens. He takes a step inside the closet. As soon as he's not blocking the exit anymore, Bucky can feel his heartbeat go down. "You know, you can talk to me. How're you feeling?"    
  
Functional within mission parameters. He doesn't need the Chair as long as he is functional within mission parameters. What is the mission. Steve doesn't like 'functional.' Steve wants him to be honest, use words like 'worried' and 'sad' and 'hurt.' He remembers that. It has to be right.    
  
He settles on, "...fuzzy. Not sure of -- not sure. The shoulder aches." The last one is the safe. The shoulder always aches.    
  
Steve nods, soft and understanding. Bucky doesn't think he fucked up. Then Steve sits down next to him, their sides brushing. He stops thinking. Wants Steve to touch him. Doesn't want Steve to touch him. Wants the warmth and the softness but doesn't want the -- the --    
  
Pulse high again. Breath trapped under the throat in the trachea.    
  
"...okay? Do you need me to move away?"    
  
Does he need Steve to move away. "No!" It's sharp and mean and he's raised his voice. He's fucked up now and at least he's gonna what that means until they take if from him again.    
  
"Alright," Says Steve. He reaches over. Big hands on the shoulders. The body goes pliant as Steve arranges him. Doesn't make sense how he does it. Bucky is half of top of him now and it would be hard to--    
  
"Okay?" Asks Steve. Wants an answer.    
  
"Okay." He's only shaking a little bit. Steve's hands rub at the shoulder. Thumbs dig in. The body's deflating, relaxing. It's... nice. He can feel Steve's breath on his hair, his lips. He's afraid of touching the shoulder himself, sometimes, but Steve's touch is sure and stable.    
  
"Once you're better," Steve says, "We can see if we can get this thing off, yeah?" Bucky freezes. Steve is still talking, something about how heavy it has to be. He's not listening. Once he's better, he won't need the arm anymore. He doesn't know what's in the arm. Has to be the arm. Should have thought.   
  
If he's better for Steve, he'll take off the arm.

 

* * *

 

When they walk back towards the kitchen, Steve holds him by the arm. Bucky wants to take the other one instead. This makes sense, though. He knows it now for a warning. The arm is still on, Steve is saying, _You'd better do what I say._ He's pulling him by his leash, and Bucky hates it, the awful helplessness of it a lump in his throat, but he understands. He knows this. Doesn't remember how they controlled him before Hydra, but they had to have. They'll probably go back to that, if they take the arm off. He's looking forward to it. His memories are fuzzy and blurred around the edges and wrong, at times, but he remembers enough to know it had been better.    
  
Really, that Steve would take the arm off at all is the best he can hope for. He'll just have to be better. He'll just have to be good for Steve, keep it up for long enough...    
  
"Eggs?" Steve asks, peering thoughtfully into the fridge.    
  
"Sure, thanks." Bucky says. He's determined it's a safe answer, and, after he's done choking down breakfast, gives it to everything Steve suggests.    
  
("Wanna go for a hike? I don't know if you saw outside, but it's real pretty. Might be nice. We can treat this like a camping trip, yeah? Or, vacation, I guess." "You should the shower in the master bedroom, you'd like it. More settings than the TV, Buck, welcome to the future." "I'm driving out to get pizza. You good with pizza?")   
  
He trails along behind Steve, forces the body to imitate him where appropriate. It's numb and sometimes the flesh hand shakes and he can't tell why, but Steve grins and pats him on the back and messes up his hair. He's doing well.    
  
By the end of the day, the body feels both weighed down and over-exposed. He manages to finish his slice of pizza, but the nausea gets difficult to ignore. Hard to focus on what Steve is saying. Something about Brooklyn, about the past, about a new apartment, about where they're gonna go once it's cleared up. He knows enough to nod along, agree when it's required of him.    
  
Natalia makes an appearance about then, noticeably grimmer than the night before, and Bucky can finally relax once she's occupying Steve's attention. He catches snippets of conversation, doesn't pay them much mind. This is normal. Other people talking with each other means he doesn't have to participate.    
  
"--more demand for a trial than we anticipated after he went public with--"    
  
"--can't put him through that, Nat, you've seen it--"   
  
"--didn't remember you coming back--"    
  
What are they doing. The body feels like waking up after cryo. Every nerve is singing, and he can't-- can't move, they're going to--    
  
"--look, you've got to talk to Stark. He's not giving at all, here, and you know he trusts me as far as--"    
  
"--what about Clint-- did he find--"    
  
"--I don't know -- why do you think -- I’d tell you if he got in touch--"    
  
Why are they doing this. Has to be the arm. Not mission functional. Stop, don't know why--    
  
"Why what, Buck?"    
  
Opens the eyes. Too bright, Steve peering in, big, blue eyes worried, yeah right pal. Remembers this now, starts seeing things at the hundred and two hour mark, hearing things earlier-- the scritch scritch scritch of their pencils on the clipboard--    
  
"-- that he's all there. Far as I can tell, slept four hours the week he's been here--" It's Natalia, but it's also another voice, half out of a dream, "Development of acute psychotic symptoms occurs at--"   
  
The asset wishes it could move to let the body vomit -- greasy cheese, stuck to the roof of the mouth, why is it there -- something on top of him, God, what are they doing, don't make him into the asset again -- what is it, the leather, why can't he --    


* * *

 

Crust around the eyes. The-- Bucky blinks a few times as he sits up. The feet are tangled in a throw blanket. Yellow, red stripes. Reaches over, shakes it out. Thinks, bizarrely, somewhere in the back of the head,  _ That's the flag of New Mexico _ . Then,  _ how the hell do I know that?  _ Realizes, then, that it happened again.    
  
Why did it happen. He was trying so hard. He was doing what Steve wanted. They can't do this if he doesn't know why. Doesn't work that way. Can't associate negative reinforcement with malfunction. They tried, he remembers now, before, thought there was a way to do it, but he just kept-- would hurt, and malfunction, and the wipe, and the hurt, and the new malfunction and then they-- they--   
  
They gave up. Why are they trying again. Can't say anything. Can't tell them how to their jobs, who does he think he is. Never going to be better, though, if that's how they do it. Never going to have the arm off.    
  
They don't have a Chair. The arm has to be it. If it's off, he can-- they'll be mad, but he'll hold on to it, he'll know what's going on, they'll be able to fix him in a way that he understands, a way that works.    
  
Nothing sharp enough in the kitchen. He doesn't know if they did that on purpose. Does know where Natalia's safes are, had seen the knives. She's got to keep them sharp. He's going to need three different ones -- only one good for bone, doesn't know how it's attached, but he knows he's going to have to doing it fast, hopes it doesn't splinter...    
  
He doesn't remember retrieving the weapons, doesn't remember how he comes to be holed up in panic closet. Wonders, vaguely, if they know, if they're watching him, but -- can't be. Can't think that.    
  
Belt off. Can't make noise. Has to stop for a second at the dizziness that comes with the leather in his mouth. Nauseous before he's even started, can taste tomato sauce and cheese and grease again. Deep breath, through the nose. Four in, hold for seven, out for eight.    
  
Knife in, under the metal. Blood bubbling up, can feel it down the spine, the whole way. Already started, only has to keep going. Focus on the grease and the bile, not the shoulder. Knife in again.

 

* * *

 

The arm won't come off. Stuck to the bone. Goes somewhere inside. Can't see past the white of the -- the white of bone. Been sending stinging electrical signals for the last fifteen minutes. Flesh around it aches, dull and horrible, then the pain again, can feel it down the blood vessels, in the bones.    
  
Hard to breathe. Went black once before. Lost time. Running out of time. Don't make a noise.    
  
Can't take the arm off, only the flesh around. Major injury, not fully mission functional. Will heal with minimal assistance. Can heal around the arm.    
  
Only one way forward, then. Oddly-- oddly familiar. Get as much of the flesh off as possible. Arm won't sit right. Will have to take it off to rebuild it. They'll take it off.    
  
Breathe in. Hold. Out. Can't last forever. Always thinks about how nothing can last forever.    
  
Smallest knife -- accuracy is key. The fist is also the scalpel. Arms shaking, hands shaking. Chip it off, the flesh, little bit after bit. Wet sounds as they fall. Focus on something else, anything else. Kettle boiling outside, far away, the kitchen. Natalia. They'll come looking for him soon.    
  
There's only the taste of blood left -- no grease, no cheese, not even the vomit. Little bits of belt, little bits of cheek, tongue. Can't make a noise. Remembers this now, though he was never the one doing the cutting. The last time it was the good arm. Before, before it was in the spine, and before that--    
  
Breathes in. Out. Doesn't hold, chest shaking too badly. Black reflective surface of the knife useful for assessment. Major injury, not mission functional. Will not heal without major medical intervention. Arm removal necessary. Arm should not come on. Shoulder wrong, jagged. Can see the smooth surface of the metal underneath. Won't fit, like --   
  
\-- like mismatched puzzle pieces --   
  
\-- can't just jam it in there you goddamn punk, it won't fit, no Buck I think it was cut wrong, let me just --   
  
In. Out. Can hear the  _ drip drip drip _ of blood on the floor. Chest hurts. Why does the chest hurt. Should be done but.    
  
The good arm. The spine. Have to be other things in there. Unlikely to be unsupervised again, after this. Has to happen now. The small knife. Bad arm nonfunctional. Should have thought of this earlier. Still a way to do this. Feels for the implants, under the palm, awkward to reach, but-- there's the angle, with the knife. That's the angle. Presses it in. Thinks it misses any major blood vessels. Hard to see. Vision compromised.    
  
Too much blood. Can't dig around with the fingers, has to be the knife. Gets it out, finally, drops down with clumps around it, slippery and sliding. Spine next. Has to push off the wall, tumbles, face first, dark, has to reach around, fingers of the good arm still clenched around the knife...   
  
Hard to think, hard to breathe, eyes shut, wet. Reach around to the spine, fireworks around the eyes -- critically compromised, blood loss resulting in loss of consciousness--   
  
The kettle is no longer boiling in the kitchen. The last thing thing he hears is soft footsteps just outside.    
  


* * *

  
  
Smells of antiseptic. Betasept. Pain dull, far away. Must have been big, or secret. They don't dull it otherwise. Breathes in, then out. Moves, to find itself --himself-- unrestrained outside of a cuff on the good elbow. Even the bad arm is -- the bad arm is --   
  
Gone. The bad arm is gone. Why is the bad arm gone. Goes to sit up, and--    
  
Hand on the good shoulder. Voice unsympathetic. "You're alright. Come back down." Red hair, one strand stuck behind her ear. Eyes framed by long, dark lashes. Smear of red on her chin, right under mouth, framed by a bruise.    
  
"Natalia," He rasps. Should say more but.    
  
"Morning, sunshine. Ice cube?"    
  
He doesn't answer, but she feeds him one anyways. Nice on the throat, cold.    
  
"Where," The room is unmarked, professional. Not the safe house. Could be anywhere.    
  
"Stark. Sorry about the cuff, by the way, he doesn't trust you."    
  
"Smart man. Steve?"    
  
"I'll get him. He's been sitting up the last two days, just got him to take a nap. Have to warn you, though, he's... not happy with you. Doesn't get it. I know he'll try to bottle it up, but I understand if--"    
  
"I--" He has to swallow. Notices the awkwardness, this time, when she pushes an ice cube against his lips. "Want to see him."    
  
"Alright." She stands. Her leggings looks comfortable. He holds on until she's out of the room, and then safely passes out again.    


* * *

  
  
Betasept. Shoulder aches, overwhelming. Arm is off. Hands on the forehead, in the hair. Eyes hurt. Good arm hurts. Chest. Hard to breathe, ceiling is white, Stark's, cuff around the elbow.    
  
"Buck, are you with me?" Steve's voice, his eyes, his hand, on the forehead.    
  
"Steve."   
  
"Yeah, it's me. How're you feeling?"    
  
"Hurts." He manages. Steve's eyes widen, a fraction. He presses a button, somewhere by the bed, and shoves another ice cube against Bucky's mouth.    
  
"Better?"   
  
Takes a little bit. "Yeah."    
  
"Alright, then. You wanna tell me about what happened?" He does, really. Or he should. He's going to, but the world is swimming in and out.    


* * *

  
"Ow! That hurts, y'know, two of those are broken."    
  
"Yeah, you deserve it."    
  
"I told you, Tasha, my phone got crushed. Totally demolished. Didn't even light up when I pressed the power button."   
  
"You could have still called."    
  
"Do you think I remember anyone's number?"    
  
"Whatever. Steve's probably in the phone book."   
  
Betasept. Arm gone. Nothing hurts. A blond man in the chair, who, judging by the way that Natalia is sitting on top of him, can only be Clint. Has to sit up, tell them to--   
  
"Oh, he's awake," Says Natalia, and slides down so she's on top of Clint rather than  _ on top of _ Clint. "Hey, James, you're alright. Come back down."    
  
He comes back down. "Get Steve."    
  
She doesn't question it this time, just gets up and leaves. Clint sits there awkwardly, for a second, then says, "Hi, I'm Clint."    
  
There's a long pause.   
  
"Um, Barton." Beat. "You want ice? There's ice."    
  
Bucky takes one look at his fingernails and shakes his head. By the time Steve or Natalia get there, he's out again.    
  


* * *

 

Betasept, white room, arm gone, shape in the chair--   
  
"Steve." He shakes his head at the offered ice. "You wanted to-- to, er..."    
  
"Why'd you do it, Buck? What were you doing? We-- we noticed because Nat  _ smelled the blood _ , Christ, you could have..."    
  
The throat is dry now. Should have taken the ice. But he'll know, at least, what Steve's punishments look like. He'll learn. So he starts talking, about how he can't learn if he doesn't know, about how he knew it was wrong and couldn't stop it, how he understands. Steve's eyes get wider and wider. In the end, he braces himself for -- for impact, for something, but--   
  
He doesn't expect it when Steve turns away, breathes through folded hands. Doesn't expect it when Steve starts crying.   
  



End file.
